


Doomsday Prisoners（末日囚徒）

by CindyChen0330



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:27:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22773331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CindyChen0330/pseuds/CindyChen0330
Summary: The Last Night.
Relationships: Fushimi Saruhiko/Yata Misaki
Comments: 3
Kudos: 33





	Doomsday Prisoners（末日囚徒）

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [[伏八/猿美]末日囚徒](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22654951) by [beigangshirahama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beigangshirahama/pseuds/beigangshirahama). 



> This work is a translation and I’ll be updating it regularly (add some details/find better ways of paraphrasing etc.), so don’t be surprised if you notice that you’re not reading the exact same text from last time :D
> 
> The original fic is simply amazing and I’m so honored to be able to translate it💕 Sarumi is my first crush, and I know that even death could never do my little angels apart.

Shh. He knelt down before him, with legs that have never done so even on the battlefield.

A close colleague took advantage of the break from the meeting to pass him the note. His fingers crushed over it, sweat beading his palms even faster than the thoughts running through his head. He remembers what he had said to the man: "If there was any news about him, whether good or bad, please let me know."

The first note came in a month ago. "Yata-san led his troops to the northeastern frontline." He read the note under the flickering torchlight in the corridor, tossing it into the blazing flames right after. Just taking his troops out, he thought. Nothing special. After all, a vast empire like that needed a pioneering figure to take the lead -- although he knew that having the prince out for the job was far from being a good sign.

The second one came in two weeks ago. "Yata-san has been captured in defeat, currently held in the dungeon outside capital city." Earlier he had heard that a great number of imperial troops had defected and the rebels had won without a fight. The smile on his subordinate's face was so large it seemed twisted, and his words bubbled with high hopes:the war was coming to an end. The highly accomplished general read and reread the note, and then went on with his troop deployment, as if he did not feel the joy of the imminent end of the war, nor some kind of deep, inexplicable sadness. But his knuckles cracked beneath the table, and he knew that his heart was falling apart: tearing, breaking, muscle tissues being fractured, and he felt the pain of every muscle--Yata had been captured, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out what the rebel army would do to a fallen prince.

This collapsing empire is undergoing an unprecedented war. The corruption and weakness of the empire have well been known, but the vast state apparatus has still continued to operate at a seemingly peaceful pace over the past few years; however, an uprising launched by a civilian force a few months ago happened to be the last straw, and in a few short weeks, rebels that rose from the northeast received support from all over the country. Since then, the imperial army has been losing ground at an alarming rate. Daily dispatches poured from the army into the city, bringing no good news, only urgency, urgency and urgency as far as the eye could see. Fushimi was an important general in the rebellion, and it was he who led his army to win most of the rebels' victories.

Now all his dreams have been shattered soundlessly like a crystal glass. This thin, butterfly-like slip of paper was a heavy declaration of disillusionment and the coming trial visible to the naked eye: the time has been set, before tomorrow’s siege, in public. In a bold scrawl, the colleague had added a rare personal touch to the end of the note. My condolences, he wrote.

Condolence. What a light word. Should the grief had come only from this moment, he would not have been so overwhelmed; but alas, grief and sorrow had never left him, ever since the day he learned of Yata’s true identity. He returned to his room, threw himself back on the bed, and prayed, prayed to the gods, hoping that even the smallest miracle would be revealed to him—but he knew that the gods were hardly able to save themselves, let alone the life of a tiny prince.

He met Yata four years ago. It was the time of the autumn festivals, and he gave himself a rare break, shuffling with the crowd then dropping in for a cup or two at some out-of-the-way pub. Before he’d managed to finish his drink, however, two drunkards had started to quarrel, sweeping over a row of tables in the process. The tavern keeper was a genteel man in glasses, but no less powerful than any of his officers in his sweep and uppercut. Yata’s table happened to be in that unfortunate row, so he stood up and slowly moved into the chair next to Fushimi’s. Ah, those guys suck. Yata said. Then he turned and saw another face, tipsy just like his own.

Such a corny way to meet for the first time, now that he thought of it. They had talked for the entire afternoon, from the pretty little bird that he’d hunted as a child in the northeastern woods, to the debate of how agricultural policies could be adjusted the most effectively. What could two drunk men have to offer? Fushimi didn’t remember. Perhaps they weren’t even drunk, or perhaps they were, nobody knew. Yata tilted his head and said to him, you’re so beautiful. You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. Those were drunken words but they had Fushimi in. With crisp force he pinned Yata’s head down—as if he had enough strength left to escape—and took hold of those plump, tender lips.

Night had just begun to fall. They ran out from the tavern hand in hand—or rather, Fushimi grasped Yata’s hand and led the way—to the nearest hotel they could find. Like two fishes, swimming upstream in the swarm of people pouring into Central square. The hotel owner had also gone to the festival, leaving a teen-aged boy in charge. He flung out the silver: One room, keep the change. The innocent boy was momentarily shocked: One room? Is that enough? He grabbed the keys and headed upstairs, a giggling Yata in his arms: Not enough for kids, but more than enough for adults.

What a revolution. He felt like he lost half a life in the process. They made their way up the stairs, walking at first, eventually breaking into a run, and then, finally, bolting desperately into that somewhat dim and tiny room. The door slammed shut behind them. Fushimi pressed Yata against the wall, whispering as his hands devoured every inch of his body: Looks like I’ve hunted down another chirping little beauty. Yata’s response seemed much more straightforward. His arms circled around Fushimi’s neck, legs wrapped tightly around his waist: Just shut up and get on with it, if you’re a real man.

Our so-called real man let out an embarrassing cry the moment Fushimi entered him, leaving a mess of scratches with his hands. Fushimi had to devote half of his energy to soothe his pain. He kissed him, softly, densely, like a fairytale dream. But the room was in a state of almost unsightly splendor: shirts and trousers were scattered all over the floor, while a sock was left standing on Yata’s foot. They entangled, bit, sucked, shouted indulgently, choosing to obey the libido of human nature.

Just a fling. A wrong decision he’d regretted for countless times. The next morning when he woke up on him—indeed, he had actually fallen asleep on Yata’s body—he saw that he was covered head to toe with molted kiss marks. Yata woke up with him as he shifted, dazed at first, then belatedly shocked and intellectually broken. They sat on the bed and stared at each other. It was then that he spoke the most regretted and the least regretted words of his life. He said, maybe we could see each other again?

Then they kept seeing each other once a week on average. Sometimes one of them’s got something going on, and when the following week comes there would be two tacit meetings. The accuracy of their meetings well beat that of the old man’s biological clock, and when the time came he was even a bit anxious: Hurry, hurry. Want to see him.

Such a weekly routine of affairs went on for about two years. Becoming lovers had not been a part of the plan. They’d been having one particularly stormy afternoon at the hotel, and Yata literally fainted on his pillow by the time it was finished. When they woke up it was around 8 or 9 p.m., and the two pondered for a moment before deciding to go down and forage: losing one’s life from low blood sugar was definitely not a humorous matter. They realized, belatedly, that there were so many lovers on the street because a pretty little flower girl had stopped them. Big brother, buy some flowers for that brother! In spite of Yata’s constant complaints that he should have done it, Fushimi gladly paid and picked out the best bloom to hand to him. They walked along the street in silence, their faces red, the rose tightly clutched in Yata’s hand. Just as he was about to pinch the water out of its stem, Fushimi spoke up. Go out with me, he said.

And so they dated for more than two years.

Yata said he was a guard at the duke's palace. On the day of the celebration he had sneaked out to join in the fun, and then unexpectedly met him—when he said those words he was curled up in his arms, breath so hot it burned, a steaming cloud over his chest. Fushimi said that he worked for an officer, which was perfectly true—the leader of the rebellion had been an officer of the empire. There had been chances for him to get to the bottom of Yata’s identity, but a subtle something had always made him hesitate: Yata was like a piece of fine jade he had stumbled upon, and he only dared to take him out and polish him in the middle of the night, unwilling to show even the slightest fragment of scrap to any other human being.

Two years later the first signs of war appeared. They lay in the decrepit hotel and talked of the grave present. Yata stood by the window, watching the ant-like crowds scurrying across central square. Saruhiko, he said. There’s something I want to tell you. He approached him from behind, bare-footed, and hugged him to his chest: Go ahead. Yata turned and wrapped his arms around his waist—his voice sounded a bit muffled from the gesture. I’m a prince, Yata said.

Fushimi knew that he couldn’t just be a guard. The garments, the air of royalty, he couldn’t possibly be a mere guard. But he still hadn’t expected Yata to be a prince--there had been so many chances for him to uncover Yata’s identity, but he had never grasped onto them, never. Those were unnerving times, and he was prisoner to his own flicker of insanity upon this looming end. He rejected everything that might have affected their relationship, including the recognition of the truth.

  
Forgive me…Forgive me. Yata said in his arms. His fingers clutched helplessly onto the hems of Fushimi’s shirt, just like the way he cried for his mercy on the bed. He thought that he’d lost it. God, what a sick, ridiculous, preposterous story: a general of the rebel army, falling in love with the enemy that he’d eventually come to face. There had been countless chances for him to escape from this absurd fate, but not once did he grasp onto them, nor once did he succeed.

  
No, not yet. Hope has not yet been lost. He thought maybe he could find a practical solution with the help of his acquaintances: whether to protect him from the unavoidable chaos of the final battles, or to run away and be a pair of poor, struggling lovebirds from now on. Give me some time, Misaki… He said. Let me think about it. And then he placed a kiss on Yata’s forehead. A heavy, bitter-tasting kiss.

  
Next week, he finally said. Next week I’ll tell you some things about myself. But before that…Give me some time to think about it. Thoroughly. Yata seemed to let out a long breath. His sweaty palms slid into Fushimi’s; he took hold of his hand, his trembling, slim and delicately-textured hand. He said let’s call it a day. Yata agreed lowly without lifting his head.

  
In the coming week he pondered, planned, mapped out routes and sought out contacts. Thankfully, none of the generals that he’d promoted had forgotten his sincere kindness. The preparations were fully detailed and close to perfection now: no matter which choice Yata made, whether to fight or to flee, Fushimi could back him up.

  
He arrived on time at their usual pub during noon, stomach jittering with both hesitance and joy. Perhaps Yata would be shocked—not to mention angry—at him for hiding his identity, but he believed in himself—he believed that Yata would choose to forgive him, just as he chose to unconditionally love him. But Yata didn’t appear even when the last birds had disappeared into the horizon. Uneasiness began to catch up on him. Fushimi ran all the way to their once honeyed, now broken-down little den, only to find that Yata “hasn’t been here for the entire afternoon”. He wanted to wait longer, just a bit longer, for Yata must appear soon—he’s never broken a date before. But there wasn’t a whiff of his presence even when the gates slid shut.

  
With dead feet he walked back to his residence, falling weakly onto the bed. Sleep came much faster than he expected; thoughts turmoiled in his head and he could still fall asleep. But Yata was there in his dreams all night: dashingly dressed in his prince’s attire, gallant and vigorous, methodically commanding his troops to counterattack on a fine horse. Fushimi was pushed to the corner and could only watch Yata charge from a distance. Bows flew past his hair, narrowly missing, and Fushimi almost forgot his place as he yelled and bolted in Yata’s direction. Calm down, he told himself. Yet both his arms and legs struggled towards Yata with frequency that strained to exceed the physiological limits of humans. Just when he was a mere few steps away from him, a long and visibly poisoned bow flung past, aiming directly for the back of Yata’s head. He didn’t even have time to think why he could see it in such precise detail: a steel head, body stained with blood, the fiery red feather at its end much too bright for cold weaponry. There was an ominous purplish-black tint to the head—he knew by sight that it was herbal poison, a specialty of the northeastern lands. And then it penetrated the soft skin that his hands had once caressed upon, with a yelp of pain from his prince as he tumbled and fell. The demeaning clang of horse hooves rumbled on behind him. Fushimi cried from the bottom of his lungs: Misaki—

  
He woke abruptly to the shrill sound of a whistle. An emergency call. With clammy cold sweat and a tear-struck face he hurried to dress and wash, not even having the time to catch up on his breath, nor was his hammering heart allowed the slightest of breaks. The captain declared solemnly that the first battle in northeastern areas has blasted its first shot, due to the careless act of a soldier which startled the imperial army. From this moment on, each and every one of them must await orders at all times, in preparation for a severe and long challenge. The first thing he did after the meeting was to ask his colleague to bring him information about the prince, but it still came as a surprise when he received the first note on the day right after: Yata has taken his troops out. He finally understood why Yata had failed to show up: it was impossible for him to sneak out the palace during that time. The next day Fushimi also received a military order for him to head to the northwest front.

  
The war had begun.

The jail guard was napping against the doorframe when Fushimi walked in. The heavy sound of boots clicking across the floor was loud and clear, enough to wake the guard from his sweet dreams. Without wiping the saliva from his mouth, he jumped up and clanked his heels together in salute position: General Fushimi!

  
Fushimi gave him a nod: A personal matter, no need to follow. So he remained in his salute until Fushimi disappeared at the end of the corridor.

  
Fushimi walked down the stone steps, eventually stopping at a heavy door in the heart of the dungeon. He found that he was calmer than he thought—his fingers shook only twice before the keys removed from his waist had successfully turned over in the lock. It seems that the voice has startled the person inside. There was a rustling sound: Who is it?

  
It’s me. Fushimi turned and hung the lock back in place, carefully closing the door.

  
He didn’t know what to say, or perhaps he shouldn’t say anything tonight; all he had to do was withstand Yata’s delayed anger, yell at him, hit him, bite him, humiliate him with all his might, accusing him of his deception…But all that was fine as long as he could see him again—alive.

  
But the anger that he had expected never came. Yata simply stood from the bed—or rather, a long wooden board placed on a pile of bricks and covered with a sheet—and put his dusty coat on. There you are, Saruhiko. He said. There was even the trace of a smile on his face.

  
Tremor. He twisted his hands together, knuckles turning white in the effort. Quivers ran from his hands up to the full length of his arms. He made two quick steps forward, hardly able to speak, voice strained and choking as he forced out one word: Misaki...

  
What are you standing there for? Come here. Yata said gently.

  
He tried taking a step forward, only to find that his legs were sore and worn to the point of immobility. His soul broke free of the bonds ahead of him, running towards Yata, hugging him, kissing him. Yet his legs still won’t move. Walk, you asshole, walk! He cursed himself silently. Why the hell aren’t you moving, move your legs and walk to him, now! ...

  
In the end it was still Yata who walked towards him. With difficulty he bent down and put on his shoes, moving slowly towards Fushimi. Wooden shackles dangled from his wrists, shackles that should have been a better fit for him... Yata had lost weight, a great deal of it. He stood silently in front of Fushimi, lifting his hand to caress the other’s face: you came. The scorching heat of his skin traced over his cheek, radiated through the tender rubbing of his thumbs, burned into his heart; Fushimi felt like he was about to faint.

  
You asshole, don’t you have anything to say now that you've seen me? Eh? Yata scolded. He grabbed Fushimi’s hand and placed it on the backside of his waist. Lesson number one—always give someone a hug if you haven’t seen them for a long time. It’s what we call good manners.

  
Fushimi still didn’t move.

  
Yata ran out of ideas. If you came here just to stand in that place like an idiot, then I’m leaving, he said. He took a step backwards, barely steadying himself before Fushimi pulled him into a tight hug.

  
Ouch! That hurt! Take it easier, will you?

  
Misaki. Misaki.

  
What?

  
Forgive me...Forgive me.

  
Yata laughed out loud: Forgive you for what?

  
He went quiet again. Breathing unevenly.

  
A prince would never be friends with an unidentified person, get it? Yata pushed him away and walked casually towards the bed. It’s been ages since I found out everything about you—Don't think that you're the only one with connections.

  
Fushimi froze. You...already knew?

  
Yep. Everything. You’re quite good, Saru. Such a fast promotion.

  
Since when?

  
Since...we started dating.

  
Yata winked at Fushimi: Sit. He sat right next to him and pulled him close, examining every inch of his body with his hands.

  
A mere month passed and Yata had thinned drastically. Fushimi’s hands slid down his ribcage, feeling the sharp texture of every bone, heart twisting with intense pain. He fished Yata’s face out of his arms and examined it under the torchlight, observing the shadows that have deepened considerably; there were also greenish-gray circles under his eyes, no doubt an aftermath of poor sleep.

  
The next thing he saw was the blood seeping from Yata’s stomach. He scowled and reached for the hems of his shirt, but Yata stopped him midway: No, it’s okay! Just worked out for a bit today and tugged on the wound, that’s all...

  
Instinctively he felt that this was not the truth. Yata had never been a good liar, and he had no choice but to give up as Fushimi insisted on checking his injuries. A patch of purplish bruises bloomed underneath the thin shirt—kicked, by the look of it—while the wound to his stomach had been carelessly wrapped in bandages, showing obvious signs of lack of proper treatment.

  
What happened? Anger bubbled in Fushimi’s voice.

  
Yata shrunk his neck a little. When they let the prisoners out for fresh air...Y’know, special times, special targets.

  
Most of Yata’s fellow prisoners in the dungeon were former generals and ministers of the empire. Knowing that their time was over and there weren’t many good days left, they poured their mounting wrath on him—they believed it was Yata and his father who brought them to such a tragic end. Naturally, none of guards could complain about this, and the fact that Yata’s face remained scar-free, injuries entirely concealed by his clothes, only provided convenience for them to gain a reputation of being kind to prisoners.

  
He knelt down on the ground, took out the bandages and medicine from his bag, and began dabbing at Yata’s wounds with a stony expression.

  
Tsk...Can’t you be a bit gentler? Yata grimaced and nudged against him.

  
Don’t move. His movements softened a little. After checking that there were no more bleeding wounds and that the bandages had been wrapped carefully, he nodded and said, done.

  
Yata giggled and gave his shins a playful kick: You really know your stuff, General Fushimi. Fushimi took hold of his jumpy little foot: Misaki. There’s something I need to tell you. 

  
What is it?  
The time…It’s been set. Before tomorrow’s siege.  
Where?  
At the gates.  
Oh…That’s pretty good! I can see the city again. Hope it’s a sunny day tomorrow.  
Misaki!

Shocked by Fushimi’s sudden yell, the smile on Yata’s face froze. It’s okay…It’s okay. I’ve always known that this day would come…And, and you too, right?

  
Fushimi was finding it difficult to breathe. He took Yata’s hand in his: I can take you. I’ve got a plan…Someone will be waiting for us once we make it out of here. We can escape from the northwest, where there are lots of mountains and forests, they can’t possibly catch us there…

  
Yata sighed quietly and reached forward, embracing Fushimi’s neck with difficulty. Saruhiko…

  
He didn’t seem to hear. Trust me. Trust me. These men are definitely reliable…I can take you with me. I can…

  
…Saruhiko.

  
He couldn’t speak anymore. His legs gave way beneath him, hands holding onto Yata’s knees like a drowning person clinging to a life buoy. Yata’s kneecaps were so gaunt they cut into his palms, but the familiar warmth was still there. His heart began splitting again, muscle fibers being ripped out one by one, pain, tearing pain, washing over him like waves on a sand bed.

  
Yata took Fushimi’s head into his arms. His fingers weaved through his hair, caressing softly, rhythmically.

  
There is another way, right? Did you bring it?  
Don’t…  
Listen to me, Saru. I can’t leave, I just can’t. We can’t. There’ll be more than just a few guards looking after me, and you know that better than I do. I’ve got injuries, and you don’t even have a weapon; we can’t possibly make it with just the two of us. I can’t leave, because I’m a prince. I must take responsibility for the downfall of my country.  
I can’t…  
There is another way. Just the two of us, with your eyes on me. I know that you brought it…You’ve always been prepared to the fullest.  
No…Please.

All right. Yata let go him. Come and sit beside me.

  
Fushimi’s eyes were swollen, and the muscles on his cheeks quivered slightly. Pain, regret and resentment mixed themselves into a broken mask on his face. He hugged Yata again, tightly. For a moment all that was left was the quiet sputtering of the torch. In silence, they held each other and waited for Fushimi to calm down.

  
He spoke up after a while. Misaki. I really missed you, he said.

  
Yata lifted his head from Fushimi’s arms, smiling his usual carefree smile: Me too.

  
Fushimi placed a gentle kiss on his forehead.

  
It’s still early. Let’s do something. Yata stood up.

  
Do what? Fushimi looked at him warily.

  
Shh. He knelt down before him, with legs that have never done so even on the battlefield.

  
Yata reached out to take off his pants. Fushimi immediately grabbed his wrist: Misaki.

...My hands aren’t free now. Don’t move. Yata broke free of his hand and continued with his awkward movements. He freed Fushimi’s member from his already wet underwear.

Misaki, you...

Keep quiet. Yata took a deep breath and took Fushimi inside his mouth, causing him to swell up almost immediately. 

Yata has never done a blowjob for him, not even when their passion was at its strongest. He’d had an instinctive fear for that thing—the very thing that forced open his tight hole and sent him to a paradise of supreme bliss. But now he was mouthing its great tip with clumsy movements, licking it, drawing light circles with his tongue. Bonded hands struggled to hold it, rubbing slowly up and down its length. And then he let it go, tilting his head to lick throughly up the side. Every sinew, every crease, every inch served and soothed. He looked up and eyed Fushimi smugly as he felt him harden, a string of silver trailing from his extended, scarlet tongue. 

  
Fushimi whispered, hold it in your mouth. The way Yata lifted his eyes at him was so erotic it killed. Obediently he swallowed his length once again, the hotness of his mouth making Fushimi moan uncontrollably. He pinned his head down and forced himself down the back of Yata’s throat. Yata’s mouth trembled in instinctive resistance; he felt his jaw growing sore, a light numbness spreading across his tongue. The salty taste of precum filled his mouth, while his eyes welled with physiological tears. 

  
Yet Fushimi showed no signs of stopping. The convulsing sensation of Yata’s mouth was too pleasant to resist; breathing heavily, he held Yata’s head in place and pushed himself deeper in. Yata began to whine like a tiny animal: too deep, too much. Fushimi took hold of his chin and forced his head up, all the while attacking his inner mouth without mercy. Even his scalp felt numb as Yata’s throat tightened around him; shrilling waves of pleasure ran along from his spine to his brain. The saliva that Yata failed to swallow trickled down the smooth line of his chin, his cheeks flushed and red, but there was a dazed touch to his expression. Good heavens, how could there be such an innocent yet seductive person—a live Venus fallen down to earth.

  
Fushimi suddenly felt somewhat grateful. Perhaps the gods did bless him, blessed him with a priceless treasure like Yata; yet he recalled his lover’s plight and felt, once  
again, the pain of having to lose him soon. He shook the thoughts away and thrust violently, feeling that he was about to come; so he made to pull himself out, only to have Yata clinging onto him until he swallowed the whole of his cum; looking up, Yata grinned at him triumphantly, the tears still glistening wetly on his face. 

  
You...All Fushimi could do was bend down and kiss his crimson lips, unsurprisingly tasting his own salty flavor in Yata’s mouth. Yata stood up and straddled him, a clear look of provocation on his face: I’m on the top today. 

...

  
The torch on the wall burned out completely.

  
Fushimi got off from Yata’s body and took him in his arms. Yata was still choking with sobs from the aftershock of the climax; he caressed his bare back and kissed him all over, forehead, lips, eyes and cheeks. With a kiss to his hair, he bent down and murmured, I love you.

  
Mmm…Mmm. Yata responded in a tiny voice.

  
They clung to each other, from chest to stomach, from stomach to heels, as close as can be. The doomsday of fate was about to come; they were bonded prisoners in this deadly cell of love.

Daybreak.

  
Yata heard the scuffling sound of troops outside. He rose from Fushimi’s arms and began fumbling through the neatly-folded pile of clothes beside his pillow. Fushimi woke up simultaneously, watching Yata dress himself clumsily in silence. Yata turned and smiled at him, showing very white, very neat teeth: There’s so much trouble with this thing on… Can’t you guys make some improvements?

  
Fushimi replied, I’ll tell them to. And he reached forward to help Yata fasten his belt.

  
This is the first time that he’s seen Yata in his prince’s costume. Although he was much thinner than before, so thin that the clothes seemed to dangle on him, he was still a handsome boy. Charm over hundreds, admiration from thousands, but belonging to one and only. Fushimi Saruhiko’s handsome boy.

  
Yata noticed Fushimi’s distracted expression and elbowed him in the ribs: S’ up? It’s not like you haven’t seen me before.

  
He chuckled: But I’ve never seen someone as beautiful as you, Misaki.

  
Yata’s face went red. You forgot something, didn’t you? He asked.

  
Fushimi took him in his arms and kissed his forehead: Good morning, my highness.

  
Yata sat back onto the bed after he finished, turning his head towards Fushimi: give me your hand. Fushimi obeyed, and Yata bit down hard on the base of his left fourth finger. His teeth crunched with the effort, but Fushimi didn’t make a sound.

  
Keep it.

I will.

  
They looked at each other in silence, engraving each other’s faces into their eyes, molting each other’s presence into their blood and bones.

  
It’s time. Yata said. You can give it to me now.

  
Fushimi bent down and started fumbling. Hands shook so hard the bag wouldn’t open.

  
The syringe was filled with a clear, colorless liquid. Yata located his veins and injected the whole inside. He let out a long sigh as he put it back down: That’s it. Not the best end in the world, I’ve got to admit…

  
Fushimi clenched his teeth. You know I could’ve…

  
There, there. Yata took hold of his neck. The effect was quick; he could feel the numbness on his tongue. Fushimi’s arms tightened around him.

  
You asshole, better stay alone for the rest of your life. Yata said.  
I will. I promise. He said.

  
Win the fight. Don’t get yourself injured. Yata said.  
I understand. I’ll be careful. He said.

  
Yata’s breathing grew more and more labored. His arm slid from his neck and hung limply to one side. Fushimi carefully laid him on the bed, holding his hand.

  
Saruhiko.  
Mmm?  
Go and turn this boring world upside down, and create a new one.  
Okay.

  
Saruhiko.  
If it’s possible, bury me next to your home.  
No, no. He began to choke, shaking his hand hard. I changed my mind. Don't go. Don't go.

  
We’ll see each other…Again. Yata’s voice trailed off. One last thing…he struggled for the words.  
What is it? He put his ear close to Yata’s lips.  
…I love you.

  
[The end]

**Author's Note:**

> 我永远喜欢猿美小天使们😭💜你们是至真至烈的爱的存在。


End file.
